


Expectations

by Rizobact



Series: Curb Finds [16]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (it's written that way), Gen, If you read it that way, Sparklings, pre-Prowl/Jazz, referenced mechpreg, societal pressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 01:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6353968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prowl is slowly being surrounded by the increasing number of sparklings in the new post-war Cybertron. So why isn't he happy about it? Doesn't everyone love sparklings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the contrast challenge in my writing group, in which the objective was to write about a character who has the opposite reaction to an object/noun than most people would. Thank you to [12drakon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/12drakon/pseuds/12drakon) for the beta and to everyone in the group for being so patient, supportive, and encouraging with this one. You all are wonderful ♥

“Awwww!”

A chorus of excited exclamations rose from the cubicles nearest the door of the main office area. Prowl’s plating flinched down reflexively at the first sound and he ducked around the corner into one of the conference rooms, hoping no one had seen him.

“Look at him! He’s so precious!”

“Adorable! Simply adorable!”

“The little darling!”

Prowl could hear everyone getting up and gathering at the front of the room, their voices filled with joy. He listened a moment longer before gingerly pulling the door closed and walking over to one of the low-backed chairs to sit down. He left the lights off; with any luck, no one would look for him here if they got the notion to try to track him down and include him in the visit.

If he’d known Gridlock’s mate was planning to stop by with their new sparkling, he would have arranged to be busy. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do when mechs showed up unannounced other than what he was already doing – hiding and waiting until they were gone.

He raised a hand to rub at his chevron as his wings twitched fitfully. The door wasn’t thick enough to completely block out the noise of the cheerful congregation, and the cooing, babbling baby talk everyone had lapsed into grated on his neural net. At least the sparkling wasn’t crying or shrieking loud enough to be heard over them yet, though that wasn’t likely to last. Sparklings didn’t tend to stay quiet for long, especially not with a large group of mechs fussing over them and agitating them.

What was he going to do? He was going to have to do something. With the war over and reconstruction well underway, more and more mechs were starting families, meaning there were more and more sparklings everywhere. There was even talk of adding a daycare to the precinct, which would mean there would be sparklings in the building  _ all the time _ . Soon he wouldn’t be able to hide it anymore – soon everyone would discover that Prowl, unlike every other Praxian he had ever met, couldn’t stand being around sparklings.

His attempts to explain had never gone over well in the past. No one had been willing to accept or respect his aversion to sparklings. ‘Wrong’ they had called it, called him, back in Praxus. Like their Vosian kin, most Praxians had strong creator drives and those who didn’t usually at least had active caretaker protocols. Rarely it happened that a Praxian was indifferent to sparklings, but to find them actually repellent? It was unthinkable. And that had been when attitudes weren’t so reverential toward newsparks. After almost annihilating their race, the first new generation in millions of years was viewed as something tantamount to sacred… which made wanting nothing to do with them tantamount to blasphemy.

As he listened to the happy, joyful sounds in the outer office and cringed anew as the sparkling’s vocalizations became loud enough for him to pick out above the din, he wished again that there was something he could do besides try to disguise his aversion. Something other than going to a medic. Prowl didn’t want to be _fixed_. He didn’t feel _broken_. He just wasn’t looking forward to trying to defend himself once again against a society that said he was.

He was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of footsteps coming toward the conference room. They slowed as they reached the door, and Prowl forced his features into as bland an expression as he could manage. An unexpected but familiar black helm peeked in, a smile lighting up the mech’s face as his blue visor looked around the room and landed on Prowl.

“There you are! You’re missin’ little Radar makin’ the rounds!” Jazz broke off, glancing at the dimmed lights. “You got a processorache or somethin’?” he asked more quietly.

“I–” Prowl began, but before he could get out more than the single word a skreeling whine lanced through the air, followed by a series of beeps and clicks. Out in the office several mechs laughed and made indulgent shushing noises, all of which were completely ineffective. Radar continued to whirr and chirp loudly, and Prowl couldn’t keep the pained expression from his face or stop his door wings from jerking back violently.

“Woah, hey now,” Jazz said, leaning back to call down the hall, “Found him! He ain’t feelin’ well though, so you all go on ahead, I’ll meet you in the break room!” Stepping inside fully, Jazz pulled the door shut once more behind him. “Talk to me, Prowler. You all right?”

The words were on the tip of his glossa: yes, I’m fine. No, it’s only a processor ache. I’m sorry I missed seeing Radar. Little white lies, lies he’d told hundreds of times, lies he shouldn’t have to tell. Prowl tried but couldn’t get them past his lips, even after Jazz had unwittingly handed him the perfect excuse, a reason the others would accept.

“Okay, you’re startin’ to worry me here,” Jazz said, walking over and drawing up a chair to sit next to Prowl. He could feel the scan sweeping over his plating, checking for irregularities or damage.

_ There’s nothing wrong with me! _

“My apologies,” he said stiffly, pulling away as Jazz reached for him. “There is no cause for concern.”

Jazz withdrew his hand, but his visor glinted suspiciously. “I dunno that I believe that,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “C’mon, mech. What’s going on? You were fine just before you left to grab the blueprints. What happened between then and now?”

“Nothing happened,” Prowl said, the words sounding hollow and far away. “I am perfectly fine. I also have work to get back to. Please excuse me.” He started to get up but Jazz beat him to it, jumping up from his casual pose in his chair in one fluid motion to stand imposingly over Prowl.

“No way. This is the third time this has happened this decaorn and I think I’m startin’ to see a pattern.”

Prowl felt his spark clench. Jazz knew?

“You hide when mechs bring their sparklings in to say hi,” Jazz said. “You’ve always got a reason for makin’ yourself scarce, but it’s still hiding. And you always come back out lookin’ stressed.” He frowned, his frame language telegraphing confusion rather than anger. “Why, Prowl?”

What could he say? Of all the mechs on Cybertron, Jazz was the last one he wanted thinking he was defective. He was one of Prowl’s oldest and closest friends, and sometimes Prowl wished… but no. He could never be in a relationship. Not with anyone, but especially not Jazz. The mech loved sparklings and was fantastic with them, always lighting up when they were around and playing with them happily until their creators insisted on taking them back. Prowl could never give him that.

Perhaps he could say that literally? Perhaps he should say that being around sparklings was painful for him because he was unable to have any of his own? That was an angle he hadn’t considered before. He turned the idea over rapidly in his processor. It was more socially acceptable to not be able to have sparklings than to not want them. It would solve everything!

Except it wouldn’t, of course, he realized seconds later. If he said that, then mechs would start insisting he see a medic just in case something could be done about it, or trying to get him to spend even  _ more  _ time with their sparklings to make up for his loss, to try to make him  _ feel better _ .

He didn’t realize he was clenching his jaw or his fists in frustration until Jazz reached out to stroke gently over Prowl’s tightly curled fingers. This time he didn’t jerk away, though he still didn’t relax either. He felt cornered with no way out, no way to shake Jazz off and make him let this go.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. I won’t judge,” Jazz promised, and Prowl almost believed him. He wanted to believe him, but everyone judged. Everyone always judged. Everyone always thought they knew him better than he knew himself.

“It is not important,” he managed finally, silently willing Jazz to leave it alone, knowing he would not.

He didn’t. “It’s important to you,” he said. “That makes it important. So tell me.”

Jazz’s words felt simultaneously like a slap and a balm and suddenly the strain was too much. “I do not like sparklings,” Prowl blurted out before he could lock down his vocalizer. “I dislike the way mechs behave around them, I dislike the way they reach and cling with their hands and their fields, and I dislike the sounds they make. Being around them is uncomfortable and unpleasant and I do not like them.” He raised his chin angrily, daring Jazz to comment. “Go on. Say it. I know what you are thinking.”

Instead of the rebuke or cajoling arguments he was expecting, however, Jazz simply let go of his hand and sat back down in his chair. “You know what I’m thinking, do you?” he asked, his usually animated face going unusually still. “You think you know my head better’n I do?”

The pointed barb punctured Prowl’s anger in an instant, draining it all away and leaving him empty. “That – that is not what I meant,” he said softly, the tension bleeding from his frame and his field. “I only meant…” he trailed off, unable to continue.

“You meant you know what you’ve heard before from other mechs,” Jazz supplied, his tone not ungentle. “Well I ain’t other mechs. And I said I wouldn’t judge.”

There was a long beat of silence. “I’m guessin’ you’re waitin’ for me to start lecturin’ you on how you just need to get used to ‘em, that it’s different when they’re yours, that you’ll feel differently when you start having your own sparklings.” Jazz shook his helm, huffing a frustrated sigh. “Mech, if you decide to have sparklings – _if_ , not _when_ – that’s no one’s business but yours. Ain’t a law sayin’ you gotta, right?”

“…not a law, no,” Prowl said when Jazz continued to look at him silently, waiting. “Just an expectation.”

“Slag that,” Jazz said vehemently, startling Prowl. “You don’t have to live up to anybody’s expectations but yours.” Then his lips widened in a warm smile. “I’m glad you told me. Next time I won’t try and drag you to the meet ’n greet.”

Perplexed, Prowl stared at Jazz. “But you love sparklings,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“Only the ones I can give back after a joor or two,” Jazz said with a cheeky grin. “You got me pegged all wrong if you think I want to be a creator, Prowler.” He stood, offering Prowl his hand. “C’mon, they’re all in the breakroom right now – we can sneak past ‘em easy. How ‘bout we go get lunch somewhere sparkling-free?”

As he took Jazz’s hand and allowed him to pull him to his feet, Prowl finally smiled. He felt like a weight had just been lifted from his spark.


End file.
